Tag: animated gifs

  • Three-day strawberry jam, à la Christine Ferber

    Three-day strawberry jam, à la Christine Ferber

    I first made this recipe a few weeks before my mom came to visit from the south of France last autumn. She loves her morning toast – always a baguette, always unsalted butter, thickly spread. I can’t quite agree – I want salted butter, the kind that pushes back against the sweetness of the jam.

    Most times, I make my usual recipe, the one I’ve relied on since 2009, back when I first worked with Andrew Gravett. But this time, I felt like trying something different. Christine Ferber’s method – slow and deliberate. Pierre Hermé has always sworn by her jams, and he’s never wrong.

     

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    Three-day strawberry jam

    Adapted from Christine Ferber's Mes confitures: jams and jellies.
    There’s a quiet kind of magic in slow preserves – the way sugar and time work together to turn fruit into something more than itself. This one starts with strawberries, small and fragrant, macerated overnight until they glisten. The process takes three days, like most Christine Ferber's jams and preserves – an institution in itself.

    Notes

    A note on using frozen strawberries:
    I always – always – freeze strawberries in the summer. I wash and hull them first, then freeze them on a tray before packing them into freezer bags. They work exceptionally well in smoothies, compotes, and of course, jams.
    I use them straight from the freezer – no need to defrost – keeping them whole. The sugar and lemon juice draw out their juices as they macerate, turning them into something almost candied. The result is a jam that’s less spreadable, with whole strawberries suspended in a thick, glossy syrup.
    Author: Fanny Zanotti
    Prep Time10 minutes
    Cook Time45 minutes
    Total Time3 days 55 minutes

    Ingredients

    • 1 kg hulled and quartered strawberries
    • 850 g caster sugar
    • Juice of one small lemon

    Instructions

    Day 1

    • Place the strawberries into a large non-reactive bowl. Add the caster sugar and lemon juice, stir, and cover with clingfilm. Leave to macerate overnight in the fridge.

    Day 2

    • By morning, the strawberries will have given up their juices. Tip everything into a pot and bring it to a gentle simmer. Pour it all back into the bowl, cover, and return to the fridge for another night.

    Day 3

    • Strain the strawberries, letting the syrup run through a fine sieve. Bring the syrup to a boil, skimming off any foam, and let it cook until it reaches 105°C.
    • Add the strawberries back in and bring everything to a rolling boil.
    • Skim again, stir gently, and let it cook for 5 more minutes. The syrup should be thick enough to coat a spoon, and the strawberries should shine – translucent and almost candied.
    • Spoon into warm jars, seal, and let cool. Then, find a reason to open one – some good bread, a spoonful over yogurt, or just because.

  • Sunday morning plättar

    Sunday morning plättar

    Last night, we had rökta räkor [smoked prawns] for dinner, with plenty of aioli and sourdough bread, and a bottle of pinot grigio whe’d kept on our veranda to chill. By the time we’d fallen asleep, the clocks had been set backwards and a thin layer of fresh snow had covered the roofs we see through our bedroom windows.
    Coffee, fleece blanket, and Sunday morning plättar [Swedish pancakes].

    Swedish plättar
    Adapted from Kungsörnen’s recipe.

    In Sweden, pancakes can have many forms. There are the larger ones, not unlike crêpes, although somewhat thicker: plättar. There are the small ones, cooked in a special pan: småplättar. And there are the ones cooked in the oven: pannkaka or perhaps more likely, ugnspannkaka.

    These names are, however, subject of a debate; one that has been dividing the country. Yes, what I’ve just told you is only valid in Skellefteå (where we live, and where K. grew up) and above. South of us, even as close as Umeå, which stands just a short 135km drive away, what I’ve come to know as plättar is called pannkakor. And plättar really means the small ones. Rather confusing, no?

    In an insightful episode of Språket, the terminology is examined and the comments make for an even more interesting read (in Swedish).
    One reader states that, to her, plättar are the pancakes that one cooks in a cast-iron pan, eventually, with small holes for små runda plättar [small round plättar]. Tunnpannkakor [literally, thin pancakes] are cooked on the stove in a frying pan, and can be made with the same batter as plättar. Ugnspannkaka is baked in a roasting tin and the batter is thicker than the one made for plättar or tunnpannkakor. She then follows by saying that in any case, plättar cannot be cooked in a frying pan, tunnpannkakor shouldn’t be made in a cast-iron pan, and of course, ugnspannkaka can only be baked in the oven.

    So really, I have no idea which recipe I’m sharing with you today other than it’s one that we love to make – on Sunday mornings or as a quick everyday dinner. One that we eat with jam, most likely the drottningsylt I made with the blueberries and raspberries we picked over the summer. One that I cook over the stove in a cast-iron pannkakspanna, something that changed everything I knew about crêpes.

    These plättar have crisp and salty edges, and are slightly thicker than the crêpes I grew up on.
    You could make them in a regular frying pan, in which case, I’d recommend warming up a generous amount of butter and oil in the pan until it just starts to smoke before cooking them. If you choose to make them in a cast-iron pan, don’t hesitate to use a little more batter than you normally would, perhaps 1 1/2 ladle instead of the usual 1.

    Swedish plättar

    Makes around 10-12 medium pancakes, approx. 22cm wide.

    2 eggs
    500 mL whole milk
    1/2 tsp sea salt
    180 g plain flour
    a generous tbsp     (around 20-30g) melted butter

    Combine the eggs, milk and salt. Pour half over the flour and mix until smooth. Add the remaining flour and the melted butter, whisking as you do so.
    You can use the batter straight away or store it in the fridge for up to 36 hours.

    When you are ready to cook the plättar, heat a lightly oiled cast-iron pan (read note above) over high heat.

    When the pan starts to smoke, pour a ladle of batter onto the pan, using approximately one-third of a cup for each plätt. Tilt the pan in a circular motion so that the batter coats the surface evenly.
    Cook the plätt for about a minute, until the edges start to brown. Loosen with a palette knife, flip over and cook the other side for a minute. Serve hot.

  • Kladdkaka du dimanche

    Kladdkaka du dimanche

    [Swedish chocolate cake, of the Sunday kind]

    Everytime I come around here, a whole season has gone by.

    There was summer and its endless hours in the kitchen that I now call home. But before we knew it, the time for semester [holidays] came. And went.

    Two weeks in our stuga [cabin] in the middle of the woods; and I still stand by my words when I say Åsen is my dream place. A dream that – this time – we shared with my family who traveled the three-thousand kilometres between us.

    We picked blåbär [blueberries] and lingon; and my father – who’d never been this up north ever before – spent a day teaching me where to find mushrooms in the Swedish forests, reminiscing the mornings we’d busied up in the lower Alps more than twenty years ago now. We picked mostly giroles, but also ceps and chanterelles, although it was still a little early in the season for the latter.

    We visited the small factory where the dalahäst we cherish so much are made, a short twenty minute drive from the stuga, in the heart of Dalarna. My mother bought more horses that she could – literally – handle; and the picture I took on my phone will always be a favourite memory of mine.

    We baked traditional Swedish snittar and drömmar [biscuits] that now also have a strong following in a little house of the south of France.

    Then came the golden days – that I must admit, I almost wrote as “goldays”, perhaps I am onto something – of autumn.

    Long walks by the river to the sound of the wind through birch branches so tall it makes you dizzy. And no matter what, I will always be in love with the peculiar colour of a sun setting through these trees that are now a part of my universe.

    There is the smell of rain. And dead leaves too. And of pumpkin roasting in the oven, just so. There is the first frost, which I had predicted to the day. Yes, to the day! And the rönnbär [Rowan berries] we picked and candied; a jar that will probably be forgotten at the back of the fridge for another few weeks before it makes an appearance on our table.

    And rather unexpectedly, there was winter too.

    The day after we’d moved to our new flat. The view of Skellefteå rooftops from our bed; one minute black as coal, the next covered in a thick mantle of snow. A snow that lasted for a week, even though back then, we did not know that just yet.
    The following Sunday, we pulled the suspenders of our warm overalls up and wrapped ourselves in wool. A morning in the snow, and an afternoon by the kitchen stove. And somewhere in the middle, kladdkaka and wine were involved.

    My Swedish kladdkaka recipe
    This is not a recipe I had planned to share with you, although it’s one that followed us through the seasons.

    Served with barely whipped cream and freshly picked berries in the summer; roasted pears and vanilla ice-cream in the autumn, and now made in a cardboard box kitchen as we were unpacking the things we love enough to have taken along on the ride that took us here to the north of Sweden.

    Yes, this kladdkaka recipe is just that. An everyday wonder; whipped up in less then ten minutes, it can be as fancy or as casual as you want it to be.

    And today, I thought I’d test the halogen builders site light Kalle bought last year for me to be able to take pictures through our long winter. And that perhaps, you’d appreciate to have your Sunday fika sorted out for the weekend ahead.

    In case you still have your doubts, you should know Sam’s – 3 year-old – stance on the subject: “De är jättekladdiga!” [They are very sticky*].
    * A good thing since kladdkaka literally means “sticky cake”, although I have a feeling chewy would be more of an appropriate translation.

    My Swedish kladdkaka recipe

    Makes one 22cm cake, serving 8-10.

    125 g unsalted butter
    250 g caster sugar
    1 tbsp vanilla sugar
    2 eggs
    90 g plain flour
    40 g cocoa powder
    5 g sea salt

    Preheat the oven to 175°C. Butter and line a 22cm tin with baking paper.

    Melt the butter in a pan set over medium heat.

    Off the heat, add the sugars and allow the mixture to cool down slightly for 2-3 minutes. Whisk in the eggs, one at a time, mixing well after each addition.

    Add the flour, cocoa powder, and salt, and mix until just smooth.

    Pour the batter in the prepared tin, and bake for 25 minutes, or until domed and cracked on top. Allow to cool down completely before serving.

  • An autumn day

    An autumn day

    We went for a walk today. And for once, I remembered to take my camera along. Our official purpose was to pick rönnbär [rowan berries], but really, I just wanted to wrap myself in a golden hour that comes everyday a bit sooner.

    We walked by the river. And crossed the dam that seems more of a waterfall at the moment, as water gets released before the snow comes.

    Every step we took over the bridge left traces in the frost. The first that lasts until the afternoon; only in the shadow of course, but still enough to warm my heart for a winter that I’ve longed after for weeks now.
    Yes, winter, you may come now.

    When we came home, coffee was promptly made and we picked through our small harvest. I have rönnbärsgele [rowan berry jelly] and syltade rönnbär [confit rowan berries] in mind, so hopefully I’ll share these with you soon.

  • Bonjour juin, rhubarb edition

    Bonjour juin, rhubarb edition

    Let me tell you the story of yesterday. Or rather, of yesterday afternoon.

    We stopped at the gas station. Two French hot-dogs and bad cups of coffee later we turned right on the old road towards Kusmark. It had only been a couple of weeks since our last trip and yet, the never-ending sun turned the fields into a thousand shades of green. There is the blue-green of the conifers, and the vibrant tarnished-gold of sunrays through the birch leaves.

    A wonderful forest made of apple trees and lilac, bursting and blooming, not unlike a kaleidoscope.

    And just like the road, Svante’s garden had become a wonderful forest made of apple trees and lilac, bursting and blooming, not unlike a kaleidoscope.

    I took my shoes off as I stepped out from the car and ran to the rhubarb plants, wondering how big they would have grown.
    And if it’s anything to go by I’d say that it must have been much warmer this year than last, as they reached a good twenty centimeter above my head.

    We picked and trimmed. And picked again.

    Two bushes gave us a little over twenty kilograms, perhaps even thirty. All while we left the last plant – the one by the mountain of chopped wood, drying for the winter – mostly untouched.

    This is the aftermath. A beautiful mess, of some sort. The bigger-than-I’d-ever-seen leaves went into the compost, and the stalks – at times green, at times red – were washed under ice-cold water, and stuffed into plastic bags.

    I might not be the most frequent blogger, but you can be sure to see me at least once a year as rhubarb season approaches.

    There is something about it that I can’t quite pinpoint. Most likely one of these cliché childhood memories of my grand-parents potager [vegetable patch] in Fouras.
    And just like a forever-carousel of happy recollections, neatly-arranged jars of confiture de rhubarbe [rhubarb jam] and silent wishes, here is my not-so-official June* rhubarb list.

    1. Dipping peeled rhubarb stalks in sugar, just like K. told me about a few years ago, on one of the many summer nights we spend on the south bank.
    2. Cooking rababersaft [rhubarb cordial], which everyone here freezes in small water bottles to bring a bit of summer throughout the winter days.
    3. Maybe, making a batch of rabarberbullar [rhubarb buns].
    4. And an upside-down rhubarb cake.
    5. I’ve been looking forward to trying Tartine bakery’s galette dough; and really, I think a rhubarb galette needs to happen.
    6. Baking my favourite cake: a soft vanilla sponge with bits of chopped rhubarb and a swirl of rhubarb jam, little pockets of cheesecake and a heavy handful of streusel sprinkled over its top.
    7. Of course, rhubarb jam. Not a year should go without.
    8. I’ve been dreaming of creating a simple ice-cream recipe – with no special sugars (hejdå dextrose and atomised glucose) and no stabilisers (with perhaps, cornflour or gelatin as a thickener). And given the state of my fridge-turned-rhubarb-storage, I might have to start with rhubarb creamsicle ice-cream. TBC.
    9. Thick sliced of brioches, French-toasted just so, with a generous spoonful of rhubarb compote.
    10. What’s your favourite rhubarb recipe? How do you deal with your bountiful plants?

    * June because living in the north of Sweden means just that: rhubarb in June. Enough said 🙂

  • Raw carrot cake energy balls

    Raw carrot cake energy balls

    The days are now long again. With the sun setting at ten thirty pm and rising just a short hours later at two thirty am.

    And when I told Svante last Sunday “Det känns som sommar idag.”, he was quick to answer “Det är sommar.”, something that went in unison with his rhubarb plants, which have dramatically grown over the span of a few weeks.

    So I guess summer has started; on a Sunday afternoon.

    With the ice gone from the rivers of north Sweden for what feels a couple of days, K. turned into an almost full-time fly-fisherman. And as the last traces of snow disappeared (although I’ve now seen a little patch, by Bonnstan, which is still covered in a mountain of dirty snow), we packed our car, just so we’d have the essentials ready. All day. Everyday.

    A blanket on the back-seat, in case we drop by Kusmark to pick up K.’s brother’s dog Kaiser. Waders, wading boots (for him) and hiking boots (for me), neatly arranged in a banana cardboard box in the trunk. A couple of rods and reels. Many fly boxes and manier flies.

    Some days, I happily join him, along with our kaffepanna [Swedish coffee pot], two white plastic mugs, and our favourite kokkaffe; a chunky piece of falukorv [Falun sausage], and perhaps a baguette or a few slices of sourdough bread; a knife; a box of matches; and a few energy balls in a little plastic bag.

    Raw vegan carrot cake balls
    I love to make a large batch of these and keep them in the freezer for days when we go on a little fishing/hiking trip. And really, they have now replaced the chocolate wrapped in foil that we used to bring along, at times with bits of roasted hazelnuts, other times with salty nuggets of lakrits [liquorish].

    The last batch I made was this one: carrot cake-ish, of some kind. But the variations are endless.

    You could substitute the carrot for raspberries (a favourite of mine) or bananas. Add a fat tablespoon of raw cocoa powder. Replace the oats for sprouted buckwheat or rye. Add seeds from a vanilla pod, or a grated tonka bean, or a few chopped nuts. And when the stone fruits will be in season, I urge you to try to make these with fresh peach and dried apricots (to replace the dates); and maybe add a pinch of saffron and a small handful of pistachio nuts. Another wonderful option is to use half passion fruit pulp, half grated apples, and roll the balls in matcha powder.

    Raw vegan carrot cake balls

    Makes 8-12 energy balls

    120 g rolled oats
    50 g shredded coconut
    1 tsp ground cinnamon
    1/4 tsp ground ginger
    1/4 tsp ground cardamom
    pinch of salt
    130 g grated carrots (approx. 1)
    90 g pitted medjool dates (approx. 6)
    2 tbsp coconut oil (approx. 30 g)
    1 tbsp agave/maple syrup

    Place the dry ingredients in a food processor and blitz for a minute until coarsely ground. Add the carrots, dates, coconut oil and syrup, and blitz until it forms a dough.
    Transfer to a clean work surface and roll into a log. Cut into 8, 10 or 12 depending on the size you wish your energy bites to be.
    Roll each segment into a ball and coat in shredded coconut.
    Place in an airtight container and refrigerate for at least 1 hour before eating. The raw vegan carrot cake balls will keep in the fridge for around 4-5 days. You could also make a double batch and freeze them for up to 3 months.

  • Pastry chef tips – Tour double

    Pastry chef tips – Tour double

    Single fold? Double fold?

    When it comes to laminated doughs, you find two types of tours (literally turns, although I tend to refer to them as folds in English): the tour simple – or single fold – and the tour double – otherwise known as double fold.

    I’m planning on making a post describing both types, along with some notes; but today’s pastry chef tip is all about double folds.
    On the diagram below – representing both single and double folds – you’ll find the classic double fold most books and online resources will use: the dough gets “sectioned” in quarters, both ends gets folded over the centre “spine”, and finally, to complete the double fold, the dough gets folded in half.

    The tip

    Today’s tip is the proof that something simple can have a tremendous impact; the beauty of pâtisserie really.

    I might be wrong, but I like to think that this tip was given to me by Graham Hornigold – a sensational pastry chef and even better human being who is very dear to my heart, yes, he’s the best – in our basement prep-kitchen at the Mandarin Oriental too many years ago. Thank you Graham!

    When doing a double fold, slightly offset the centre “spine” to your right as shown on the diagram below:

    Then proceed as normal:
    1. Fold the right end toward the offset centre “spine”.
    2. Fold the left end to meet the first fold.
    3. Fold the dough in half to complete the tour double.

    The reason behind it

    The “spine”, as I like to call it, where both ends meet is traditionally at the centre of the rolled-out pâton. But when you fold the dough in half to complete the tour, the two ends separate slightly due to the physical action of folding, leaving a thin gap with only one layer of dough instead of two.

    By offsetting the “spine”, you ensure that all parts of the dough get laminated, creating a dough with consistent and continuous lamination.

    One of our readers, Martin, has a very interesting insight in the comments
    Offset folding also helps by moving two of the less well laminated edges into the centre mass of the sheet. If you fold in the regular style, the poorer lamination is never adjusted and remains on the outer rim of the dough.

    Notes and resources

    -I like to trim the ends, again, to ensure a consistent lamination; but more on that later in another pastry chef tip!

    – Always gently brush off excess flour before completing the folds.

    – As I’ve mentioned it above, I’m also working on a more general article about lamination, but in the meantime, this post about cinnamon croissants contains many of my tips (and the most wonderful breakfast one could ever have).

    – My absolute favourite printed ressource: Advanced Bread and Pastry, by Michael Suas.

    – More laminated dough posts and recipes.

  • My ultimate kanelbullar

    My ultimate kanelbullar

    Tomorrow is the 4th of October. A date that doesn’t go unnoticed in Sweden. Yes, tomorrow is kanelbullens dag [cinnamon roll day].
    I must have felt that this post – which I promised to share with you long before I even knew kanelbullar had their own day – was waiting in my drafts for a reason.

    This is a recipe I first made in Åsen, the summer before last. I kneaded the dough in the evening, as we came back from a day by the lake. And by the time breakfast was ready the next morning, the buns had proofed and were ready to go in the oven for a mid-morning fika.

    Later that day, I realised we’d forgotten my camera charger in Kusmark so I ended up taking some pictures using the film camera Kalle gave me.

    We rushed on the road to Mora – through the forests and the bridge that goes over the lake, through the little stress I’ve come to cherish and the rails by which we always get to see a train pass by – to bring the roll to the only lab we knew of.

    And because it was not fully exposed, I quickly took a few pictures of what was around me. In fact, the one below – of Kalle – is, to this day, one of my favourites.
    Yes, it’s not without a certain sense of both love and reserve that I’m proud to tell you that my 79th roll of film has pictures of bullar, one of K., one of the sky, and one of flowers. The dream roll?

    But let go back to that morning. When I rolled the dough and topped it with a thick layer of cinnamon butter. I don’t always say this, but salted butter really does wonder here.
    Yes, that morning, is to be forever remembered. The table covered in a thick layer of white paint. And the blue chairs around it. The spitting sound of the fire in the wood stove. This is where I learnt how to roll kanelbullar.

    A year has passed since then – days made of snow and walk through leafless trees, a spring that only lasted a second and a summer that is now starting to turn into autumn. Many more bullar have been rolled. At home. At the café.

    And while my rolling techniques have definitely improved, the recipe has received only a few tweaks. That’s how much I’m in love with it. And I hope you will be too.

    Kanelbullar, un peu comme des brioches

    I love my bullar to be soft and fluffy, so instead of using a traditional recipe (which I always find slightly dry), I go for a cross between a doughnut and a brioche dough.

    Although I’ve shared a recipe for kanelbullar in the past, these ones are different. They are my favourites. The ones I make at home and freeze into small plastic containers, ready to be thrown into a lunchbox or popped in the microwave for an almost-instant fika. The ones I make everyday at the café too (when I’m not off – and for the first time in a long time, I shall say: YES to the weekends).

    The old ones were of the spur-of-the-moment kind. Made late, during our last night in Sweden the first time we visited. Eaten by Byske river, just a few hours before our flight back to London. They had whole wheat flour and I remember how long it took to develop the gluten by hand.
    I also remember how wonderful it was to unwrap the not-so-neatly folded foil and dip them into a forever-hot cup of kokkaffe.

    Making a sticky dough by hand is always a challenge; it takes time, a good scraper and hands being cleaned every so often. But trust me, I’ve done it many times and it doesn’t only produce beautiful results, it’s also wonderfully relaxing.

    EDIT 5 October

    After a few of you reported butter leakage, I’ve noticed I had missed a modification, which I made a few months ago: I now use a reduced amount of butter in the dough – 130g instead of 200g; a leaner dough absorbs the butter better, but I couldn’t remember why I had reduced it as I love the texture of the buns made with 200g of butter so much!
    Thank you for your feedback! Also, make sure the bullar are proofed until doubled in size before baking them. It takes around 2 hours at 24°C but can take 3-4 hours if the room temperature is colder. Lots of love and sorry for the caramelised cinnamon butter 🙁

    EDIT 6 October

    I’ve tried both batches today, with 130g and 200g butter. While I love the texture of the buns with 200g of butter, they do leak during baking; a quick fix, if you’re after melt-in-your-mouth bullar, is to bake them in muffin paper-cases so you won’t end up with a puddle.
    As for the batch with 130g of butter, they’re a bit lighter and almost no butter leak 🙂 Sending you all my cinnamon-love X

    EDIT 8 December 2016

    After having made this recipe daily for well over a year, I think an update is in order.
    I have modified it slightly, mostly because I make it using 3.2 kg of flour, and that the flour here has a slightly higher absorption power.

    Here is my updated recipe:

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    Kanelbullar 2.0

    Kanelbullar, un peu comme des brioches
    Every year, on the 4th of October, Sweden celebrates Kanelbullens dag: Cinnamon Bun Day. It feels like the perfect excuse to revisit one of my favourite recipes. These buns have been with me for over a decade now. The first version I baked in the summer of 2014 was a little more rustic.
    Since then, I’ve spent countless hours calculating baker’s percentages, testing variations and tweaking until I found what felt just right.
    What follows is my current go-to recipe (let’s call it version 2.0), followed by the 1.0 recipe for those who want to see where it all began.
    Author: Fanny Zanotti
    Prep Time1 hour 30 minutes
    Cook Time15 minutes
    Total Time1 day 1 hour 45 minutes
    Makes 14 buns

    Ingredients

    For the dough

    • 600 g flour
    • 75 g caster sugar
    • 18 g fresh yeast
    • 7.5 g sea salt
    • 4 g hand-ground cardamom
    • 225 g whole milk
    • 150 g eggs
    • 190 g unsalted butter

    For the filling

    • 190 g salted butter at room temperature
    • 150 g caster sugar
    • 3 tbsp ground cinnamon

    To top

    • 2 eggs beaten
    • pearl sugar

    For the syrup

    • 75 g caster sugar
    • 75 g water

    Instructions

    • In a large bowl, combine flour, sugar, yeast, salt, and cardamom. Add the eggs and milk. Mix until a dough forms.
    • Knead by hand for around 20 minutes, or in a stand mixer fitted with a dough-hook for about 10 minutes, until smooth, elastic, and just tacky. The dough should stretch into a thin membrane without tearing.
    • Add the butter gradually. By hand, work it in 3–4 additions, smearing and kneading until fully incorporated. In a mixer, add small pieces one by one. The dough will look split at first – keep going until smooth again.
    • Place in a large bowl, cover, and chill. Either proof 1 hour at room temperature, then refrigerate for 2 hours, or refrigerate straight away for at least 8 hours (and up to 24 hours).
    • The next day, line two trays with baking paper. Mix the filling ingredients until smooth.
    • On a lightly floured bench, roll the dough to a 30 × 60 cm rectangle, about 5–6 mm thick. Spread with cinnamon butter. Fold the dough into thirds (like a letter), giving you a rectangle about 30 × 20 cm.
    • Cut into 2 cm strips. Twist and tie each into a knot. Place on trays. Cover loosely and proof until doubled – around 2 hours.
    • Preheat oven to 200°C / fan 180°C. Brush the buns with egg wash, sprinkle with pearl sugar, and bake 12–16 minutes, until golden.
    • For extra shine, brush with hot syrup as soon as they come out of the oven. Cool slightly on a wire rack.

    Glad kanelbullens dag!

    The 1.0 recipe from my 2014 summer:
    For the dough
    530 g strong flour
    70 g caster sugar
    16 g fresh yeast
    10 g sea salt
    1 tsp ground cinnamon
    3 eggs     (150 g)
    190 g whole milk
    130 g to 200 g (read note/edit above) unsalted butter    , at room temperature

    For the cinnamon butter
    250 g salted butter, at room temperature
    170 g caster sugar
    3 tbsp ground cinnamon
    1 tsp ground cardamom

    For the topping
    1 egg, beaten, to glaze
    a handful of pearl sugar

    For the syrup
    75 g caster sugar
    75 g water

  • Brioches feuilletées au sucre

    Brioches feuilletées au sucre

    [Flaky sugar brioches]

    Today, it hailed three times. Rained once. And snowed twice. With the sun being at its brightest in between. Yes, I think April showers take a whole new meaning here.

    Some other things do too.
    In fact, I started this post in my head – perhaps yesterday, or even the day before – by telling you how busy this week has been. But as I’m writing this now – dressed with wool from head to toes, and sitting at the little wooden table that stands by the stacked firewood; hot chocolate in one hand, computer in the other, pink sunset and all – I’m forced to re-evaluate my Swedish version of busy.

    Especially when, just a few months ago, busy meant an eighteen-hour day on a three-hour night. A few hundreds of covers and the mise-en-place to match.

    These days, busy has been more like taking walks and pictures. An occasional visit to the city we’ll call home from this Monday. Perhaps, a batch of croissants; twelve of them. Or some choux, with a vanilla cream just so. A few hours spent unpacking the boxes we brought from London. And packing the essentials again. A loaf of bread; a large one mind you, but still: one. Uploading all my recipes (well, as of now, I’m about one percent into the process) to – what I think is going to be – the best/easiest/cleanest recipe database ever.

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    Brioches feuilletées au sucre

    Adapted from Philippe Contincini's Sensations.
    One day last week, after yet another croissant batch, I thought I give myself a break and make Philippe Conticini's brioches feuilletées. They'd been on my must-make list for ages, and I think they'll stay on my weekend-breakfast list for ever.
    Not only the dough – slightly drier than my go-to brioche – is a wonder to work with while laminating, but the brioches still taste amazing the day after; which makes them perfect for lazy Sundays.
    You could make the dough on Friday night, laminate and shape on Saturday. And either bake them in the afternoon or proof them overnight in your fridge (although the pearl sugar might melt from the humidity). The next morning, leave them well covered at room temperature for an hour or so, while you preheat your oven.
    While I won't cover lamination today, as you can see a step-by-step over here; there is a few important points for these brioches.

    Notes

    On adding the butter from the beginning
    Since the quantity of butter in the dough is so small, I add it along with the rest of the ingredients at the beginning of the mixing stage. It’s not something I’d ever do for my usual brioche as it has 10 times more butter which would slow down gluten development, even making it impossible to form in some parts of the dough, which would result in a patchy non-emulsified mess.
    On my process for brioche dough
    As with every brioche dough I make at home, I like to place my dough in a container and clingfilm it to the touch with several layers of clingfilm; and chilling it in the freezer for 30-45 minutes, before I leave it in the fridge overnight. This cools down the dough quickly – a necessity to avoid over-fermentation, which might happen since the dough gets fairly warm with the kneading friction (especially if like me, you’re kneading by hand).
    On pearl sugar
    The best pearl sugar for this recipe is Beghin Say Sucre Grain, which I always stock up whenever I’m in France! You can order some online here. 
    Make sure that once you’ve sprinkled the dough with pearl sugar, you run your rolling pin over it to make the sugar stick to the dough; and don’t forget to brush the edge of the dough with syrup; this makes sure your rolls stay tight as they bake.
    On using a muffin tin
    In fact, I think those would be amazing proofed and baked in a muffin tin – although I haven’t tried since I don’t have one here. I did try to bake the brioches in rings though, but I didn’t get the lovely domed shape as my rings were too small and compressed the dough slightly.
    Author: Fanny Zanotti
    Prep Time1 hour
    Cook Time30 minutes
    Total Time13 hours 30 minutes

    Ingredients

    • 510 g strong flour
    • 40 g caster sugar
    • 20 g fresh yeast
    • 7 g sea salt
    • 150 g whole milk
    • 150 g eggs
    • 50 g soft butter
    • 300 g butter for tourage

    For the simple syrup

    • 100 g caster sugar
    • 100 g water

    To fill

    • 150 g pearl sugar

    Instructions

    • Place all the ingredients aside from the tourage butter in a large bowl, and mix until it forms a dough. Transfer to a clean work surface and knead until smooth and elastic; around 15 minutes by hand (if you're using a stand-mixer fitted with the hook attachment, check the dough after 10 minutes as gluten will develop considerably faster). Wrap in clingfilm and chill in the freezer for 30 to 45 minutes, until hard but not frozen; then transfer to the fridge overnight.
    • Make the syrup: bring the sugar and water to the boil, and allow to cool down at room temperature.
    • The next morning, cut the butter into 5mm thick slices and arrange on a large piece of baking paper. Roll to a 20x30cm rectangle.
    • Lightly flour your work surface and roll the dough into a 20x60cm rectangle. Place butter on lower half, then give the dough three tours simples, with at least 30 minutes of rest in between each.
    • Chill the dough for an hour, then roll into a 35cm wide rectangle, around 5mm thick and 60cm long.
    • Sprinkle the dough with the pearl sugar leaving a 5cm margin on one edge. Roll lightly using your rolling pin for the sugar to stick to the dough; then brush the “naked” edge with syrup.
    • Roll tightly, then wrap in clingfilm and chill in the freezer for 30 minutes, seam-side down.
    • Trim and slice into 4.5cm logs; or divide the dough in 12.
    • Place into two muffin tins, 6 rolls in each so they have plenty of space.
    • Cover loosely with clingfilm and proof for around 2 hours (at 24°C for me).
    • Bake at 190°C / fan 170°C for 30-35 minutes, or until golden-brown. Brush with the remaining syrup when still warm.

    PS. The pictures above were taken when I made half a batch of brioche. So, in case you wondered, that’s why my finished log of dough is only around 30cm long and not 60 as yours would be if you decide to make a full batch.

  • Pastry chef tips – Flatten the dough with the palm of your hand

    Pastry chef tips – Flatten the dough with the palm of your hand


    More often than not, I always share tips and techniques in my posts. Why clingfilm to the touch, how to fold cream when making a mousse, how to get a neat crack on top of a loaf, how to blindbake tarts, and so on.

    But since so many of you requested, I thought I’d start a new feature* where I give you not-so-secret tips from a pastry chef. I’ve found over the years, that it – almost always – gets down to these little things. Yes, they usually make all the difference.

    Today, as I was rolling some craquelin (a thick dough made of butter, demerara sugar and flour; and used to top choux before baking – but more on that soon!) I realised there is one thing I always do when rolling dough; and yet, I haven’t told you about it before. Read more…

  • Canelés au beurre noisette et au bourbon

    Canelés au beurre noisette et au bourbon


    [Brown butter and bourbon canelés]

    There are stories that never get old, no matter how many times you tell them. Here is a collections of the ones I never-ever want to forget.

    Every evening, we go to the pond by the house on the other side of the path. Just before the sun sets. From there, we overlook the far-away lake. But really, all I care for are the frog’s eggs floating on the surface not unlike tapioca or soaked basil seeds. For some reason I find them absolutely captivating, and I’m crossing my fingers for us to stay here long enough to see them turn into tadpoles.

    One morning, Svante asked me if I had woken up early. I had, but I very well knew that he meant 4am early. Yes, he’d heard some noise coming from the forest.
    After we’d had coffee, and a tartine of sourdough bread smeared with butter and topped with hard-boiled eggs and pickled herring, we put our gumboots on and walked through the moss and woods and snow.
    As we followed the tracks, dipper and dipper into the woods, the three of us knew one thing for sure. It was a lynx.

    Yesterday, as I was sitting on the front steps of the little house – my favourite morning spot to catch the sun and drink up that mug of too-hot coffee – Svante called me from the path. A few metres from us: two rådjur [deers, don’t ask me for the plural form of their Swedish names as I’m still very confused about it all] were eating the grass that the snow-melt made alive again.

    The shooting stars we see at night. When it’s so dark we can almost make out the Milky Way.

    Every morning, I wake up early. The oven gets turned on and the loaf of bread – of dough, really – that has been slowly fermenting in the fridge overnight, is taken out and left on the counter. Some days, I’ll make coffee. Others, I go back to bed with a book, and – more often than not – I fall back asleep for an hour or so.
    The bread goes in the oven and I patiently wait. One morning, we carried firewood from the shelter where it dries up to the main house. On a wheelbarrow. Another time, we went on the rock at the top of the road, where you can watch the sun rise, almost like no other place I’ve ever been.

    Bonus campagne tale: I’ve found out that it’s actually way easier to drive on snow and ice rather than mud. The rest should probably remain untold.

    Canelés au beurre noisette et au bourbon
    Adapted from Pierre Hermé.

    I didn’t grow up eating canelés. In fact, I can’t even remember the first time I ever had one. But if I was to guess, I’d say it came frozen, from a box of miniature ones found at Picard (and if you’re not French, I should add that Picard is a frozen-product shop found everywhere across the country).

    But somehow, they’ve always seemed fascinating. A crisp almost-burnt-but-not-quite crust and custard-like crumb.

    I can’t say I’ve tried a lot of recipes, as when I first tried the ones at Pierre Hermé – back in the summer 2007 during the three-month stage that would change my life – I never even wanted to look back.
    Yes, Pierre Hermé’s recipe is my favourite.
    I’ve made them traditional, with Tahiti vanilla and aged rum. Or at times, with chocolate in the batter too. Even some pumpkin and cinnamon ones, replacing the milk with roasted pumpkin flesh and a large tablespoon of milk powder, and adding bourbon and brown butter.
    I loved this combination so much that I’ve decided to make some simpler ones today.

    I’m not going to lie, it’s not quite easy to get them right. But here are a few notes that will help you get those beauties perfect every single time.

    1. The batter must be made in advance. In a pinch, I’ve made it rest for only an hour with great results, but they are considerably better if the batter is left to rest at room temperature for at least 12 hours or in the fridge for up to 3 days.

    2. As you make the batter, the milk should be around 55°C when you pour it onto your egg mixture. This will start to cook the eggs and the starch, and will prevent the canelés to form too much moisture when they bake, hence reducing the risk of them “growing” out from their moulds as they bake.

    3. No matter what I do, I’ll always have at least one canelé trying to escape from its mould during baking. If you let it be, you’ll end up with a white-topped canelé as the batter won’t be in contact with the mould; you do not want this, trust me. My sauve-qui-peut solution is very simple. As soon as the canelés are set enough – around 20 minutes usually – I’ll carefully take out the faulty ones out from the oven, then turn them upside-down – unmoulding them really – then place them back into their moulds. This seems to do the trick every time and they won’t try to escape again.

    4. Many people stress about using a mixture of oil and beeswax to grease the moulds. Yes it does give them a special matte finish, but more than that, I think the kind and quality of the moulds matter. I know they’re expensive but Matfer copper moulds make the difference for me.
    You see here, I didn’t use any beeswax, just melted butter, brushed inside the moulds, and they came out beautifully. You could also use some cooking spray, I’ve only ever tried OneSpray which worked great.

    5. The most fundamental part is – in my opinion – the baking. In professional fan-assisted ovens, I usually preheat to 210°C, then bake for 10 minutes at this temperature, before reducing it to 190°C to finish the baking for an hour or so. At home, in my traditional oven, I’ve found that they are considerably better if I preheat the oven to 270°C and bake them for 10 minutes then reduce the temperature to 200°C for another 45 to 55 minutes depending on the size of my moulds.
    I haven’t tried baking them in a home oven with fan, but I’m assuming that preheating to 250°C and baking at 190°C would work fine. Let me know if you try 🙂

    But mostly – please please please – have fun while baking. This makes all the difference.

    Canelés au beurre noisette et au bourbon

    Makes 20 small canelés (4.5cm wide) or 12 large ones (5.5cm wide).

    500 g whole milk
    50 g brown butter
    2 vanilla pods, sliced lengthways
    2 eggs
    2 egg yolks
    250 g icing sugar
    40 g bourbon
    100 g plain flour
    a pinch of salt

    q.s. melted butter, to grease the moulds

    In a medium pan, bring the milk, brown butter, vanilla seeds and pods to the boil. Off the heat, cover with a lid and allow to infuse for at least 15-20 minutes while you get on with the rest.
    In a bowl, mix the eggs and yolks with the icing sugar until smooth, slowly pour in the bourbon. Add the flour and salt.
    Then, pour the warm milk, a little at a time over the egg mixture, mixing as you do so – but trying not to incorporate too much air into the batter. You could pass the batter through a fine-mesh sieve, I don’t.

    Cover the bowl with clingfilm and leave at room temperature overnight.

    Preheat the oven to 270°C/fan 250°C (read note above).
    Prepare the moulds. No matter which kind of fat you’re using (read note above), brush a thin layer into the moulds (or in the case of the spray, spray it). Turn the moulds upside-down onto kitchen paper to allow the excess fat to drip, then place in the freezer. If using butter, I like to repeat this one more time.

    Mix the batter for a couple of minute to homogenise. Then fill your prepared moulds almost to the rim, leaving 2 or 3 mm on top.
    Bake for 10 minutes, then reduce the temperature to 200°C/fan 190°C and bake for a further 45 minutes for small canelés or 55 minutes for large ones.

  • La tarte tropézienne

    La tarte tropézienne

    There is the sound of the icebergs bumping into each other with every wave, not unlike a distant thunderstorm. There is the forest that I’ve walked through so many times before, now covered in a thick blanket of snow. There are lakrits [liquorice] cookies in the oven. And lights by every window we see.

    Yes, this is it. Sweden.

    And really, it’s just as wonderful in the vinter [winter] as it’s ever been in the sommar [summer].

    What’s up with the Swedish words? Well, I need to learn. And if I was ever able to speak English by writing about food back-back-back in the days. I’m hoping the same will – almost magically – happen with Swedish.
    But I’ve found some amazing companions. Just yesterday, I saw Donal on television. Perfect accent and all. And today, I went to buy Linda’s beautiful baking books, which I’m utterly in love with.

    In fact, I’ve been keeping an eye on every blueberry bush – how wonderful it is to walk surrounded by blåbär och lingon [blueberries and lingonberries] – waiting, very impatiently, for summer to make blåbärssylt [blueberry jam], blueberry crumble tartlets and Linda’s blåbärsrutor [literally, blueberry squares/boxes].

    The tartes tropéziennes here have barely anything to do with it all. Perhaps that’s why it took me so long to tell you about them.
    But when Karl ate one, he said they reminded him of semla. So there is that. And I might have to make some semla inspired tarte tropézienne very soon.

    La tarte tropézienne
    Adapted from Paris Pastry Club.

    Back when I was a child, you could only buy a tarte tropézienne in St Tropez. We would drive through les Maures, a natural reserve not unlike the savanna. The road meandered between cork oaks and arbousiers [strawberry trees].

    It was the late 80s and St Tropez still had a fishing village vibe to it. Nothing compared to what it once was, yet nothing compared to what it’s now become.

    We would walk along the port, and through the market. Sometimes, we’d go up to the fort, the best view over the gulf.
    And, before we’d leave, we’d always stop at the boulangerie to get a tropézienne. A brioche filled with crème madame – pastry cream with butter and whipped cream; delicately flavoured with orange blossom.

    When I wrote Paris Pastry Club, more than gimmicky or trendy recipes, I wanted to share my absolute favourite basics. Ones you can tweak endlessly, creating an amazing répertoire of recipes to call your own.
    And when I see all your beautiful creations on instagram or on your blogs, I’m blown away. And so so so proud to inspire you – at least a little, with my words.


    These tartes tropéziennes are just this.
    A tweak on two recipes from my book. The brioche, also known as the last brioche recipe you’ll ever need, and the crème mousseline, turned crème madame for the occasion, from the fraisier (and please, as soon as the strawberries will actually taste like they should, please, make one on a Saturday, and have it for Sunday lunch, trust me on that).


    A few notes on the brioche:
    – I made half a batch in my stand mixer without problems, but it did take a little longer than the usual double batch. If I were you, I’d make a double batch, use half for tropézienne buns and shape the other half into a loaf, which you can then bake, slice and freeze for instant morning happiness.
    – Here I’ve used T55 flour, but you could also use plain flour, although make sure the protein content of your flour is around 10-12g per 100g of flour.
    The higher the protein content, the stronger the flour is, which means it has more gluten. I’ve found that for brioche, I like to use flours with eleven percents of proteins.
    – When you knead the dough, I recommend doing the windowpane test after around ten minutes. It’s kneaded enough wuen you can stretch a walnut-sized piece into a very thin membrane without it tearing apart. This stage is called full gluten development, and for my brioche recipe, it’s usually reached after 10-12 minutes of kneading in the stand mixer on medium speed. If the dough tears when you try to stretch it, simply knead for a couple more minutes before testing it again.


    – Balling the dough isn’t only done to shape it. It’s an essential step to even the distribution of gluten strands, creating a tension layer, and making sure that no large air bubbles are formed.
    To ball the dough correctly, start by portioning your brioche in even piece (I like to weigh them out so that they will proof/bake evenly). Once you have divided your dough, dip the top side in flour and dust off any excess. Place the unfloured side down on a clean work surface and roll gently with the palm of your hand in a circular motion so that the outer layer of the dough stretches into a smooth ball.

    A few notes on the crème madame:
    – Crème madame is a crème pâtissière to which butter and whipped cream have been added. It should be firm and glossy, and will set into a rich cream.
    Really, crème madame = crème mousseline + whipped cream = (crème pâtissière + butter) + whipped cream.
    – I’ve been writing a post about basic pâtisserie creams which should be published very soon.
    – For a detailed step-by-step how to make crème pâtissière, please check this article.
    – When making crème mousseline, start by creaming the butter using the paddle attachment of your stand-mixer until light and fluffy. Then add the cold crème pâtissière in batches, beating well after each addition. If the butter has seized a little, simply place the bowl on top of a pan of simmering water for a few seconds before beating for a minute or two; or use a blowtorch to heat the sides of your bowl. Repeat until all the butter has disappeared and you’re left with a gorgeously thick crème mousseline.
    If you overheat the mousseline, it will become somewhat runny. Place in the fridge for a couple of hours, then beat for five minutes using the whisk attachment of your stand-mixer.

    La tarte tropézienne

    makes 8 individual tropéziennes
    For the brioche
    275 g T55 flour
    30 g vanilla sugar
    one tsp sea salt
    1/2 tsp instant yeast
    3 eggs
    30 g whole milk
    one tbsp orange blossom water
    160 g butter    , thinly sliced

    one egg, beaten, for egg wash
    200 g pearl sugar, to sprinkle

    For the crème pâtissière
    500 g whole milk
    3 vanilla pods
    4 egg yolks
    150 g caster sugar
    50 g cornflour
    1 tsp orange blossom water

    For the crème madame
    600 g crème pâtissière (above)
    150 g butter, at room temperature
    100 g 35% cream, whipped to stiff peaks

    For the syrup
    100 g water
    70 g caster sugar
    one tbsp orange blossom water

    If you have a stand-mixer, fit the dough hook and mix the flour, salt and vanilla sugar together on slow speed. Add the instant yeast. Then pour in the milk, the eggs and the orange blossom water.
    Switch to medium speed and knead for 10 minutes, or until the dough can be stretched without breaking. Scrape the sides of the bowl every now and then to ensure everything is amalgamated.
    Alternatively, mix the ingredients by hand then turn out onto a floured work surface and knead until the dough can be stretched without breaking.
    Now, add the butter, one piece at a time, and when almost all of it is in, increase the speed and knead until smooth (or knead by hand). The dough should stop sticking to the side of the bowl (or work surface) and should be silky and very smooth, although somewhat tacky.

    Transfer the dough into a plastic container, clingfilm to the touch, and chill in the fridge overnight.

    Make the crème pâtissière.
    Bring the milk and vanilla pods and seeds to a rolling boil in a medium pan set over moderate heat.
    In a separate bowl, whisk the egg yolks and sugar to prevent the egg yolks from clumping. Add the cornflour and mix well until combined. When the milk has boiled, remove from the heat and pour a third of it over the egg mixture, whisking as you do so. This step is key when making crème pâtissière as it loosens the egg yolks but also tempers them, avoiding any lumps .
    Pour all of the egg mixture back into the pan, return to the heat and cook slowly, whisking at all times until it starts to thicken and boil.
    Once it has bubbled for a few minutes, transfer to a plastic container and clingfilm to the touch to avoid the formation of a skin. Chill in the fridge for overnight.

    Make the orange blossom syrup. Bring the sugar and water to the boil. Allow to cool down slightly, then add the orange blossom water. Reserve at room temperature overnight.

    The next day, scrape the dough from the container onto a clean and lightly floured work surface, gently press to degaz, and divide in eight 75g squares.
    Ball each square, then roll into a 1cm-high disk, roughly 8cmm wide.

    Arrange the disks of brioche onto a baking tray lined with baking paper. Cover loosely with a lightly oiled double layer of clingfilm; and proof until doubled in size.

    Preheat the oven to 200°C.
    Brush the brioche with the beaten egg, then generously sprinkle with the pearl sugar. Bake for 15-17 minutes, or until golden brown.
    Allow to cool down completely.

    In the meantime, make the crème madame.
    Cream the butter until light and fluffy. Add the crème pâtissière, one third at a time, beating well after each addition. Once all of the crème pâtissière has been added, beat for 5 minutes. The mousseline should be firm and glossy.
    If the butter has seized a little, simply place the bowl on top of a pan of simmering water for a few seconds before beating for a minute or two; or use a blowtorch to heat the sides of your bowl. Repeat until all the butter has disappeared and you’re left with a gorgeously thick crème mousseline.
    Finally, gently fold in the whipped cream.
    Place this crème madame in the fridge to firm up slightly for an hour or so.

    Once the brioches have cooled down, slice them in half with a large bread knife and generously brush the cut-side with syrup.

    Transfer the crème madame into a piping bag fitted with a 10mm nozzle and pipe the cream around the rim of the bottom brioches, then pipe a large ball in the centre.
    Top each brioches with their matching “hats”.

    Keep in the fridge, loosely covered with clingfilm for at least 4 hours or overnight.